


a new love whispering

by parcequelle



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 01:11:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11886753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parcequelle/pseuds/parcequelle
Summary: The first time Ada saw Hecate Hardbroom smile was a long time before she first called her Hecate.





	a new love whispering

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Michelle Branch's 'For Dear Life'.

**i.**

The first time Ada saw Hecate Hardbroom smile was a long time before she first called her Hecate. They had been acquainted for just over four months, most of which Miss Hardbroom had spent in Ada’s employment, scowling as she reintroduced the concepts of cleanliness and order to the disaster that was the Cackle’s potions lab. Miss Hardbroom’s predecessor, a middle-aged witch with an unfortunate propensity to brew what she termed “experimental mind-altering potions”, had been banished from the Academy upon being discovered, and Ada had found herself in the unpleasant position of having to seek a new hire mid-term. Teaching positions at Cackle’s were generally competitive, but the short notice worked against her; only four witches applied for the position, and only two of those made Ada’s personal shortlist. One was Miss Nettlepond, a kind-faced, soft-voiced witch her own age with a list of qualifications as long as her arm. They got along famously, sliding smoothly from small talk into Miss Nettlepond’s ideas for adopting the potions curriculum mere weeks before half-term exams. She was clever and competent and friendly. She would fit in. There was no reason at all that Ada shouldn’t take her, and yet—

—and yet, the other applicant was Hecate. Miss Hardbroom. She strode into the office and greeted Ada with the strictest formality, stiff as a board, six feet and a desk between them. She wore all black; she hardly moved; she didn’t smile. She spoke only when spoken to, but still managed to use the words “discipline” and “application” four times in two minutes. She sat perched on the edge of her chair like a bird about to take flight, and raised an eyebrow when Ada searched her face.

‘Tell me, Miss Hardbroom,’ Ada murmured, leaning forward on her elbows to peer at her. ‘What is it that you hope to get out of the school?’ 

‘I—’ Miss Hardbroom’s eyebrow twitched, the first hint of emotion she had displayed since her arrival, and Ada found herself intrigued by the slip. ‘I wish only to impart my knowledge to the pupils as best I can, and to ensure that they grow to be competent witches who respect the craft and the Code. Potions is a gloriously rich discipline, Miss Cackle, and one that ought to be celebrated and treasured. Spells and chanting are well and good, after all, but potion ingredients are born of the Earth and mixed with our bare hands. They are our heritage as mistresses of magic, and, I believe, our future.’ She stopped, and a flash of something like dismay crossed her face before she once again schooled her features into neutrality. She folded her hands in her lap and fell patiently silent, as though she hadn’t just said more in the last half-minute than in the last twenty combined. Ada’s intrigue moved up a rung to fascination.

‘You would be prepared, then, to begin within a week?’

‘I would,’ she said firmly. She betrayed no sign of surprise, of protest, of consternation. ‘As you know, my previous teaching post concluded at the end of last term, and I have focused my attentions on the draft of a new potions text since that time.’ She tilted her chin and added, almost reluctantly, ‘Academia is something of a hobby of mine.’

‘An admirable quality indeed,’ Ada said. She leant across the desk to pour Miss Hardbroom more tea. It was no great surprise that she took it black without sugar. ‘I actively encourage the staff to remain up-to-date on magical research. There are always new things to be discovered, after all.’ 

Miss Hardbroom inclined her head slightly and said, ‘An opinion I share, Miss Cackle.’

Ada smiled at her. Miss Hardbroom did not return it, but she held Ada’s gaze as she sat there, dark and steady and sure.

They didn’t linger over idle chitchat. Their meeting concluded, Ada stood and bid her farewell with the promise to mirror with her decision by Thursday, but even as Miss Hardbroom thanked her and transferred out, Ada knew she had already made it.

Four months later, Ada chanced into the potions lab one break-time to refill her personal stock of crushed butterfly wing (the secret ingredient of her special concentration-fuelling shortbread, tried and tested since 1987), only to find Miss Hardbroom hovering three feet in the air, magically dusting and reordering the uppermost storage shelf, on an expertly-cast extended levitation spell.

Ada allowed herself a moment to admire the inherent power and control evident in Miss Hardbroom’s maintaining at least three spells at once without breaking a sweat, and then cleared her throat. ‘Well met, Miss Hardbroom. I hadn’t expected to find you here.’

Miss Hardbroom, displaying not the slightest surprise at Ada’s appearance, floated gracefully to the floor and said, ‘Well met, Headmistress. May I assist you?’

‘My personal supplies are running low,’ Ada said, tapping the box in her hand. ‘Might you spare me some crushed butterfly wing?’

‘But of course.’ She moved with her customary straight-backed stride to a nearby shelf, extended her hand for Ada’s box and carefully measured out a fitting amount. ‘There you are.’

Ada took it and tucked it into her pocket. ‘Thank you.’ There was a lingering moment of silence as they watched one another, and then Ada ventured a smile. ‘I've been sorry to see you so rarely during break times, Miss Hardbroom. I hope you know I don't expect you to work sixteen-hour days.’

‘No, Headmistress.’ Miss Hardbroom inclined her head, considering. ‘I must confess a certain partiality to working at more unusual times of day. There is always something here to take care of or restock, particularly after the first years have been in, wreaking their peculiar brand of havoc.’ She said it in a measured voice, her face straight, but there was something else there – something hidden, laced into the tone and waiting to be uncovered – that Ada heard. It made her chuckle, and for the first time since she had met and employed her, Miss Hardbroom wore surprise.

‘Nevertheless,’ Ada said, ‘these things ought to be stated explicitly.’ She caught her gaze, held it. ‘You are most welcome to join us in the staffroom. I – that is, we – would love to have you.’

It was then that she first saw Hecate Hardbroom smile. It was only brief – the fleeting upward curve of an unexpected pink lip, the crinkle of a sharp dark eye – before it vanished whence it came, but still Ada saw it, and it warmed her more than the shaft of autumn sunlight spilling through the lab’s highest stained-glass window.

‘Thank you, Miss Cackle,’ Miss Hardbroom said, and Ada imagined she could detect a hint of warmth in that voice, now, a warmth that hadn’t been there before. ‘I shall… keep that in mind.’

‘Very good,’ Ada said. She patted the box at her hip. ‘Thank you for the butterfly wings.’

‘You’re most welcome.’ 

They nodded formally to one another. Then, just as Ada was about to transfer away, Miss Hardbroom said, ‘It’s a little known fact that crushed butterfly wing can be a marvellous concentration-enhancer.’ Her words were still a little stiff, but no less confident for it. ‘The potency is greater than the more commonly-used bat’s blood, and is of course far more tasteful to acquire.’

Ada smiled. Oh, she liked this woman.

 

**ii.**

It was the last day of term: the sun was shining, exams were over, and relief and elation wound through Cackle’s halls and doors in a sudden, notable contrast to the tense concentration of prior weeks. The girls hugged one another goodbye, shouting well-wishes and promising to mirror each other every day, and then took off on their brooms, one group headed north, one headed east, a few flying south with the breeze. Ada stood on the lawn in front of the castle and waved to the girls as they flew away. Beside her was Hecate, tall and serene as ever, her silent, stoic presence a balm for the chaos. They remained outside in the cooling sun until the last girl was no more than a speck of black against the skyline, until quiet had once again settled over the grounds. Ada turned to Hecate and smiled. ‘I suppose you’ll be headed off soon, then, as well?’

‘Actually,’ Hecate said, ‘I had thought I might remain at Cackle’s over the holidays. If you have no objections, that is.’

‘But of course,’ Ada said. ‘You know you’re always welcome, Hecate; in fact, I confess I’d rather enjoy the company.’

‘Indeed?’ she asked, one impeccable eyebrow arched. ‘It was my belief that Miss Bat would remain also.’

‘Miss Bat does usually stay on, but has elected to visit family in Canada this year.’ Ada smiled up at Hecate, who was watching her with the faintest hint of disbelief, and perhaps even… pleasure? A little slyly, Ada added, ‘I’m afraid it will just be the two of us rattling around until September. Think you can handle it?’

‘I suppose I shall have to find a way,’ Hecate said. Her twisted lips were a marriage of smirk and smile, the kind that, if Ada squinted, she might almost have dared call flirtatious.

Hecate Hardbroom, she mused, as they walked back inside together. Fancy that.

 

**iii.**

Hecate spent every summer after that one based in the castle, travelling out on occasion to attend academic witching conferences or to source elusive ingredients for her own advanced potions work. She rarely stayed away for more than five days at a time, and always returned full of renewed passion for her discipline, the glimmer of budding research in her eye. Usually, she would dismount her broom, transfer herself to her office, and begin her work as soon as she returned. Usually, she would announce herself with a soft knock on Ada’s own office door the next morning, a look on her face as near to apologetic as Hecate could get.

This time was no different. They were both chronic early risers, even in summer, so it was with little surprise that Ada heard Hecate’s voice through the door just after seven. It was a bright, clear day outside but still pleasantly cool within the castle’s stone embrace, and Ada smiled as she said, ‘Come in, my dear.’

Hecate did. She was clad in her usual black, her hair wound up tight, but the previous night’s flight from Edinburgh had dusted a little more colour than usual into her cheeks, and the effect, set against her lively eyes and the blush of her lipstick, was rather striking. Ada’s appreciation must have shown on her face, because Hecate’s eyes flickered down – a strangely vulnerable, girlish meld of embarrassment and flattery – the way they always did when she noticed that Ada had noticed. ‘Did you have a good flight?’ Ada asked.

‘I did, thank you. The wind was behind me all the way.’

Ada had been sitting at her desk, but now she stood and moved around it, gestured for Hecate to take a seat in her customary armchair. She cast a quick spell to refill the teapot and floated it over to the table, sat down across from her and poured them both a cup. ‘When did you return?’

‘Half eleven,’ Hecate said. She wrapped her long, elegant fingers around the warm cup and added, a little shyly, ‘No doubt you were still awake. I ought to have come to see you then, but I found myself quite overcome with—’

‘—ideas for your research?’ Hecate nodded, and Ada smiled at her fondly; smiled all the more when Hecate merely raised an eyebrow at her in response. ‘Your dedication to your work, even in the holidays, is something I have always respected. Not to mention that your time is your own.’ Ada took a sip and savoured the rich warmth of the brew. ‘That said, it is lovely to see you.’

Hecate’s eyes crinkled at her over her cup, and she murmured, ‘And you, Ada.’ They drank in comfortable silence until Hecate set her cup down and said, ‘I have something for you.’

‘Oh?’

Hecate pulled a small cloth pouch from the hidden pocket of her dress and handed it over. ‘ _Campanula rotundifolia_ ,’ she murmured. ‘You once mentioned your fondness for them, if I remember correctly.’

‘You always remember correctly.’ Touched, affection for this most treasured of women singing through her blood like magic, Ada turned the buds in her fingers and looked up at her. ‘It must have been two years ago that we spoke of Scottish flowers.’

‘Nearly three,’ Hecate corrected, ‘but that is of no consequence. Do you… are they to your liking?’

Ada held out her flower-free hand and, when Hecate took it, gave it a squeeze. ‘They are wonderful,’ she said, ‘as are you. Thank you, dearest.’

Ever-conscious of awakening Hecate’s discomfort, of embarrassing her, Ada rarely allowed herself such moments of emotional abandon. This time, however, whether it be the time they had spent apart or the soft quiet of the summer morning or simply the connection they had just shared, Hecate did not seem to object; rather, she seemed pleased, a small, honest smile lighting her face for a moment before she leant down, swift and gallant, to kiss Ada’s hand. It was an unusual display for her, and both the knowledge and the sensation tingled their way up Ada’s arm, all the way to her heart. She expected Hecate to stand, to bid her farewell and return to her work, but instead she stayed, Ada’s fingers around her own, and said, ‘It was my pleasure.’

**Author's Note:**

> I sometimes hang out [here](http://farmerdamsel.tumblr.com/) if you want to say hi!


End file.
